Playing Games
by eclaire291
Summary: For every pain exacted by Petyr during his days peddling Sansa to minor lords, Sansa exacts some during the nights. It started as a game, but how long can it continue?


Title: Playing Games  
>CharactersPairings: Petyr/Sansa  
>Author's Notes: Some of the characters' thoughts contain some irony and contradiction. I wanted to show them as flawed individuals. I hope you can enjoy the story anyway.<br>WARNING: Squicky content ahead. It's Petyr/Sansa so obviously it's not exactly appropriate. There is also a somewhat explicit sexual scene. Don't say I didn't warn you.  
>Disclaimer: I obviously don't own <em>A Song of Ice and Fire <em>series or _A_ _Game of Thrones_ TV show. If I did I'd actually have money, I probably wouldn't spend my time writing fanfiction, and Ned Stark would be alive and King of the North. Darn those Lannisters.

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><p><strong>Playing Games<strong>

Nearly seven weeks. That was how long Sansa Stark had found herself an unwilling pawn in Petyr's game of uniting kingdoms. He had been throwing Sansa at minor lords across the whole of Westeros in the hopes of using the power of the kingdoms to usurp the throne. Sansa was sick of it, sick of pretending to be Alayne Stone. Sick of acting like some whore in fine silk.

And she was sick of finding herself in Petyr's tent during the interludes between finding lords and kingdoms. She had never considered the possibility of him taking her to his bed. Had never thought her virginity would be given to someone who held no love for her. It had started the night before she was supposed to meet Lord Hytell. Petyr had told her she would have to be sufficient in the arts of love if she hoped to win the lord's favor. His intentions were clear. Petyr had not forced her though, had even been silent when she refused him outright and stalked away in outrage. However, she had allowed herself more wine than was wise that night and slipped into his tent some time before dawn. He had taken her willingly and then handed her over to the lord later that afternoon without a flicker of regret or misgiving.

She had told herself that one time would be the end of it. However, she would always find herself in Petyr's tent before the last star lit the sky. Sansa never let him take her the way a lord was supposed to take a lady. Never let him throw her on her back. She was always the one to mount him. It made her feel like she was in control for once, not him. The bed was the only place she was allowed such luxury since he controlled every aspect of her life at the moment. Where she went, which lords she attempted to align herself with. Because of this, she was surprised that he never protested, never forced her to submit to him the way he wished. Even when he neared orgasm, he would never try to control her movements. She would watch him carefully when they made love, the way his facial expressions changed as she pressed her hips against his, leaned forward, leaned back, moved a certain way. She relished the moments when she saw pain flash across his face instead of passion, it were those moments that drove her to orgasm. If not, she would fake it.

She never let his body touch hers after they were finished. She would lie on her side as far from him as possible, waiting for him to fall asleep so she could slip away to her own tent. However, on this night he moved to her and pressed his body against the curve of hers. His mouth moved to her ear. "Are you having fun pretending, Sansa?" he whispered.

She felt his fingers lightly brush her stomach and dip between her legs. She swallowed a gasp of protest as he stroked her.

"Pretending, my lord?" she asked instead, fighting to keep her voice steady. She knew she had been playing a dangerous game. Now she would just have to wait for the price. She prayed he would just kill her quietly and not sully her body out of spite.

"Did you really think I would not notice the game you play with me?"

His fingers thrust inside her, and she felt her body react against her will. She bit back a sigh as he continued his attentions. Warmth spread between her thighs and she felt her legs opening, allowing him easier access. He pressed his lips to the skin beneath her ear. She did not trust her voice enough to give him an answer. Suddenly his hand wrapped around her thigh while his other was on her hip and she found herself pulled atop him once more.

"If it pleases you to hurt me, Sansa, I will not protest. Not when the hurt is followed by such pleasure," he murmured, his eyes glinting with mocking laughter.

Her uncertain mouth descended on his and she kissed him with harsh ferocity. He returned the kiss instantly, his tongue fighting for dominance and losing. When she finally broke away, she looked down at him and said with soft anger, "And if it pleases you to hurt me, my lord, I will not protest. Not when the hurt will soon be followed by pleasure."

He grabbed her hips and slid into her. Keeping her still, he met her eyes, "And what pleasure awaits the pain I inflict on you? My death? Will you have my head on a stake outside the walls of your castle the way the Lannister boy did for his enemies?"

Sansa began to move against him, his hands still holding her hips. "Your death would not please me," she said. No louder than a sigh, she whispered, "I will have you live your life as a slave to remember every moment you wronged my family."

"I am already a slave, Sansa. A slave of the monarchy. Fighting it is my freedom and even if you throw me in chains, I will not submit to it," Petyr said, his voice neither harsh nor kind.

He let his hands stray from her hips and travel to the small of her back. He slowly began to move her until she was half-lying on her side. He turned his body as well as he began to thrust into her, causing her entire body to move with his. She wrapped her legs around his thigh and nearly gasped at the feel of him in her. He had set a slow rhythm, and she found herself aching with every movement. He bent to kiss her neck, and she felt him smirk against her when he finally drew a real moan from her throat. Not willing to give in to him, she began to move against him, her back arching. She knew she could claim partial victory when she felt him nip at her neck in protest, his hands pressing against her shoulder blades. She surprised herself by murmuring his name when his thumb brushed her breast. She thought the sound had been soft enough that he had not heard but put this thought aside when his thrusts became faster, deeper, more persistent. Her moans grew louder, and she knew he could hear his name between them. He met her eyes at the end, his lips wordlessly forming her name. Sansa. Not Catelyn. Not Lysa. Not Alayne. Not even some whore's name. _Sansa_.

When they were done, he gradually slid out of her and pulled the sheets over them both. He still didn't try to hold her, and Sansa knew she wouldn't have allowed it if he did. However, he did meet her gaze. He watched her with interest and something akin to curiosity. She knew he held no love for her, nor she for him. They were using each other and that would not easily change; Sansa was doubtful it ever would. But it was clear that the playing field had been leveled.

The next day, he did not come into her tent to dictate what clothes she should wear. He did not even chastise her when she chatted amiably with the household guards instead of directing her attentions solely on Lord Kinslin. And he did not command her to bed the lord, for which she was grateful. She did not understand why Petyr was convinced that all royal alliances had to be made on physical relationships. No doubt that had been the way he viewed her father and mother's marriage due to his resentment of the union, and the idea had stuck with him. As they sat in Lord Kinslin's dining hall, her on the lord's left and Petyr several seats down the table, Sansa caught Petyr's eye. He discreetly raised his glass in toast to her. She allowed him a slight smile and he drank. Sansa was sick of playing games, but as long as they continued she could think of no worthier opponent than Petyr Baelish.


End file.
